


Anything But Dull

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Background Fake Relationship, Community: fullmoon_ficlet, Fake Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Jackson Whittemore is Part of the Pack, Jackson Whittemore is a Hale, Jackson and Malia are Siblings, M/M, Minor Braeden/Derek Hale, Minor Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Minor Jackson Whittemore/Original Female Character, Minor Malia Tate/Original Male Character, Other, Werewolf Conferences & Conventions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3353792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Politics is everything at a werewolf conference. Stiles is pretending to be Derek’s boyfriend. Peter is trying to make alliances by marrying Jackson and Malia off to other packs. And Jackson is frustrated by wanting the one person he can’t have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything But Dull

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for Prompt #107 - Bland at fullmoon_ficlet. I had this idea for Stiles and Jackson and the prompt totally worked for the headspace I wanted to establish for Jackson, so YAY. As always, I do not own the world nor characters of Teen Wolf, I just like to play with them.

“If looks could kill—”

“Don’t, Lydia.” Jackson interrupts her, his hand coming up between them to echo the sharpness of his tone. “Not a word. Not a single fucking word.”

She leans back in her chair, inspects a nail with a frown. “You could try—” She finishes with a soft huff when he slashes his hand again. “Really. I’m only trying to help.”

“I’m not in the mood.” Jackson’s smile is thin, lips pressed tight together, more grimace than pleasure. “My plan for tonight is to get through the meet & greet, then go up to my room and—”

“Jackson!” Stiles pushes through the crowd, drops one arm around his shoulders, leaning in to press his cheek to his. “Derek and I have found the perfect surprise for you.” The people shift, and Jackson sees Derek leading a woman with him, her heels clicking against the floor in a swift tip-tap as she approaches. She’s easily as tall as Jackson, thin, with curly blonde hair, and her lips are pursed slightly as she surveys the world around her.

When her gaze lights on Stiles and Jackson, her smile widens slightly, head tilting.

“I see I’m not needed here,” Lydia says quietly, and Jackson reaches out to touch her hand and keep her with him. This is one of those moments where he needs an anchor nearby.

“This is Emily,” Stiles says proudly, as if he’s somehow managed to unearth the greatest treasure. “She’s the only daughter of the alpha of the Dentremonte pack out of Wisconsin, she’s highly intelligent, able to kick your ass, and speaks sarcasm as a native language. You’re going to love her.”

“Are you _setting me up_ , Stilinski?” Jackson pushes to his feet, because fuck Stiles, he at least knows how to be polite. He offers his hand, notes the way that she takes it with a firm grip, more a business meeting than planned affection. He tilts his head, lets his eyes flash blue and watches her stand her ground.

Stiles darts to the side, flushing faintly. “Well, we _do_ need to make alliances, and you _do_ have a type, so we just figured…”

“We?”

“I met Peter earlier.” Emily’s gaze rakes over him from head to toe and back again, a little nod at the end as if she approves. “He seems anxious to see you settled.”

As if Jackson is an unmarried woman from the 16th century. “Peter is interfering where he has no right to be,” Jackson growls softly.

Lydia touches his fingertips and he calms, his wolf easing at her presence. The motion isn’t lost on Emily, her gaze dropping to where their fingers tangle briefly. Jackson sighs, pushes his hand through his hair. 

“Pack alliances, politics, and all that bullshit,” he mutters. “Has Malia been auctioned off for two cows and a huge tract of land?”

“Malia was last seen climbing Alpha Maximilian Fierce like a tree.” Stiles smirks. “In the middle of the hall. I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of her for the rest of the conference. Peter is _very_ pleased.”

Because everything’s political, and in the end, Peter is the only guide they have into the niggling details of werewolf politics. Derek remembers a lot from his upbringing, but there are things he was never privy to, and thus he’s told them to listen to _Peter_.

Which has led to this clusterfuck of Stiles pretending to be married to Derek to show strength in their pack, and Jackson and Malia being put on parade as eligible Hales for matches to other packs.

Jackson loathes it.

“I made a reservation at a steak house about a mile away.” When Emily speaks, her voice is lower than Jackson expects, just a little husky and lilting up at the end to make the statement into something that’s almost a question. He hears the invitation in it, and the challenge to the Hale pack that she’s going to take him away from the conference. 

He holds his hand out again, waiting until she takes it, his fingers closing around hers. He glances at Lydia, making sure she realizes that he’s okay. That he’s going to _be_ okay, no matter what. “I am _not_ a prize to be won,” he mutters, but he’s pretty sure it falls on deaf ears as Stiles is chattering to Derek about something else already.

He lets Emily lead him out of the room and away from the crowd waiting to meet the McCall and Hale packs. She’s offering an evening of _something_ , he might as well find out what.

#

The thing is, Jackson actually likes Emily. She’s sharp and funny. She doesn’t let him sit back and act stupid; she expects him to keep up and doesn’t wait for him. She pushes him and he likes it. In a way, she reminds him of Lydia, and he can see why Stiles was so thrilled to find her. Jackson _does_ have a type.

And she seems to be into him, which isn’t a bad thing. She touches him constantly, trailing fingers over his forearm, skimming just above his knee. She’s leaving traces of her scent all over him, which makes her a good future alpha and him a terrible beta for allowing it. 

But really, truth is, he doesn’t care. Her scent doesn’t itch at his nose, doesn’t make him anxious to inhale more. He doesn’t want to press his mouth at her throat and lick at her skin. He doesn’t desperately need to hear her cry out and shatter under his touch.

He doesn’t want _her_.

When she does lean in and kiss him, her teeth nipping at his lip, he can’t deny that she’s good at it. But he doesn’t feel anything more than a bland interest in the idea of sex.

He could fuck her, sure, and it’d be good. Maybe even great. But there’s no way his heart will be in it.

She pulls back and looks at him, touching the line of his cheek. “You look like your father, you know.”

He huffs a small disgruntled sound. “I’m aware. But don’t call him that. He didn’t raise me. I didn’t even know who he was for seventeen years.”

“Is that why you’re not interested?” She slides her thumb over his lip and he reaches up, capturing her hand and tangling their fingers together.

“I could be interested in sex,” he admits. “If you want to get off, that’s fine. Lydia would be the first to tell you that I’m wicked with my tongue, particularly after being stuck as a lizard for a while. But it wouldn’t be more than that. I don’t care what Peter wants; I’m not making some _alliance_ for the good of the pack. If Malia’s all in, that’s fine, but I’m not.”

Emily sits back, expression open and direct. “We’d be good together. There would be strong cubs.”

Jackson laughs, shakes his head. “That’s not a selling point. Remember, I was raised by strangers, and my father didn’t want me. I am _not_ looking forward to fatherhood like it’s something that’s going to save me. It’s just something I’m more likely to fuck up than succeed at and I am not the kind of person who fucks up. So no, that doesn’t help.”

Her gaze narrows, capturing his and pinning him. “Who is it?”

His mouth goes dry and he reaches for a drink, guzzling half his wine before he sets the glass down. “No one.”

When she leans in and kisses him, it’s sweet and soft and he doesn’t even care. “Let me take you home,” she murmurs. “We can either go back to your room and make whoever it is jealous, or you can show me off at to your pack and pretend you already did. You’re covered in my scent.”

It’s tempting. Jackson can’t remember the last time he had someone warm and willing in his bed, and just from the point of view of _company_ it’s tempting. He nods once, quickly, as if getting it over with will make it easier. 

Because he knows it won’t work. He might as well be invisible, or just a pawn to be moved on the chess board. Nothing’s going to change, no matter what he does.

#

They make it back while the meet & greet is still in full swing. Jackson knows he could go there for an hour, or he could reroute and just take Emily up to his room for some comforting enthusiastic sex.

Boring sex. Sex that is not the sex he actually _wants_ and _fuck his life_ because he decides to head for the ballroom where his pack is shaking hands with half the known packs of North America.

They make it inside the door when Emily tugs him back, stops right inside the ballroom and kisses him thoroughly. She pulls back, lips pursed in an amused twist as if to ask _are they here_ and Jackson finds himself nodding once, slowly. 

“Then it’s a good thing we got along,” Emily murmurs, breath a whisper against his ear. “Point them out?”

Jackson doesn’t get the chance—not that he _would_ —because Peter accosts them, absolutely beaming, his hands thrown wide. “Don’t you two look cozy.” For a moment Jackson thinks Peter is going to hug him and he prays his birth father isn’t that committed to appearing to be a perfect _dad_. Instead Peter stops in front of them, surveying them both. “I’ll admit, I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

“Jackson said there were people I had to meet.” Emily’s smile is disarming, her voice lapsing into something even huskier than before. Jackson stifles a laugh, biting it back because he can _feel_ the way she pours on the charm. “So here we are.”

“Of course, of course. Let me show you around.” Peter offers his arm, raises an eyebrow. “If you don’t mind.”

Jackson spreads his hand. “No, please, take her around to press hands with the best the Hale and McCall packs have to offer. You can’t possibly be in better hands than Peter’s.” His tone is dry, and Emily smirks. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find me when you’re done.”

It’s funny how when they walk away, Emily’s hand on Peter’s arm, all Jackson can think is that they’d be the perfect pair. He hasn’t known Emily long, but he’s certain she won’t be manipulated, and he suspects Peter would enjoy the game of trying to get the best of her. Pity they’re trying to marry her off to Jackson instead.

“Well, at least it wasn’t a train wreck.” Lydia stands at his elbow, watching them walk away. “Did you enjoy dinner as much as Stiles hoped?”

“Don’t, Lydia.” His jaw goes tight at the mention of Stiles’s name. “He means well. He’s just a fuck up of an emissary.”

“Hush.” She touches his lips, reminding him what he already knows—whatever he says here is for anyone to hear. Wolves’ ears work far too well for quiet conversation.

“Where are our leaders?” Jackson scans the crowd, manages to find Scott and Kira engaged in an enthusiastic conversation off to one side. Derek sits with a selection of older wolves, discussing something that involves drawing on the tablecloth. Stiles doesn’t appear to be in evidence.

“Headache,” Lydia says lightly, knowing which one he is looking for. “Begged off and went upstairs. Derek doesn’t seem concerned, but he might appreciate it if you checked in on his _boyfriend_. Just to make sure he doesn’t need anything. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure Emily is fine without you here.”

Jackson’s gaze skates back to Derek, catches him looking back as if he’s heard Lydia’s pointed words. He can’t help the flush that rises under his skin, the shift to wary embarrassment that he is positive suffuses his scent. Derek raises both eyebrows, looks at the door pointedly, then looks away.

“That looks like an order from the alpha to me.”

“He’s not an alpha.” Not that it matters, and not that it changes anything. Jackson takes a step back, then another, and by the time he reaches the door he has already turned to go.

#

They are all living on the same hall of the hotel, some in singles—Jackson, Malia, Lydia—and some in doubles—Scott and Kira, Derek and Stiles. Jackson can smell the door with Stiles’s scent most clearly marked on it, and he raps on the wood sharply. He shifts his stance while waiting, the pitcher of ice crackling slightly as they ice tilts and doesn’t spill. It takes a moment before the door opens, and Stiles glares out. 

“What?”

“Ice.” At Stiles’s confused expression, Jackson says, “Lydia mentioned you had a headache.”

Stiles laughs sharply. “I lied, okay?” The words are almost too soft to be heard, and Stiles yanks the door open to let him in. When the door closes behind him, there’s a soft thunk and it feels as if Jackson’s ears are muffled. He turns, tilts his head, tries to hear the noise from the hallway and the stairs three doors down. 

Nothing.

“There’s a barrier up.” Stiles takes the pitcher and sets it on the small counter between the miniature sink and the tiny coffee maker. “If you think I’m going to be staying in a room with Derek where half the population of the hotel can hear every move we make, think again. I’m not that stupid.”

“Privacy is good.” Jackson’s nostrils flare, instinctively taking in the scent, trying to find the truth of the room. He jerks back when Stiles waves a hand in his face.

“Cut it out. There’s nothing to smell unless you have a thing for dirty clothes.” Stiles falls back onto the bed. “Derek’s been sleeping on the floor as a wolf for the past two days. We are not sharing a bed, having sex, or otherwise doing anything intimate to prove our relationship. Basically he rubs himself all over me every time we plan on leaving the room, and we wear each other’s clothes. I’m really sick of the whole thing and just want to go home.”

Jackson sinks down to sit on the bed next to him, one hand twisting in the covers. “I thought you were looking forward to this. Something about wanting to bang your hot fake boyfriend.” He mimics Stiles’s voice and flailing hands, and Stiles glares at him.

“My hot fake boyfriend wants to get back to his girlfriend. The mercenary that we couldn’t bring with us because apparently polite werewolf society is _still_ scandalized that we have people like Braeden and the Argents around.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Once they get used to us _this_ year, with all our supernatural idiosyncrasies, next year they can learn that our pack leaders have nothing against hunters and mercenaries, as long as they aren’t trying to kill _us_. Scott’s mentioned Allison a dozen times easily tonight as his prior girlfriend, and no one’s hiding her name. Next year Derek can bring Braeden and I’ll be off the hook.”

“We’re coming back next year.” Jackson doesn’t like the idea, because he has a feeling that Peter isn’t going to give up on this idea of using Hale blood to bond to other packs. “Great. I’m looking forward to being pimped out again. Maybe I should move back to London.”

“Would you do that?” Stiles rolls up and suddenly he’s sitting close to Jackson, his hand leaning on the bed right by Jackson’s thigh. “I thought you said that when you came back for school, you were back for good.” He makes a face. “Malia thought you’d go back after you graduated from college, but you didn’t. It’s been two years, and you’re still here.”

“I’m still here.” Jackson tries to make his jaw work, breathes slowly to loosen the tight muscle that keeps his teeth clenched when he smiles. “I’m not leaving, Stiles. I’m also not marrying some woman my _biological father_ picks out for the good of the pack. That’s fine if Malia wants to do that, but that’s not the kind of person I am. I don’t even _like_ Peter. I can’t respect his political decisions.”

Stiles snorts. “So what _are_ you going to do? Keep on pining for whoever it is you’ve been pining for?” He shrugs one shoulder when Jackson glares at him. “I have been on the receiving end of Lydia’s _stop pining and say something_ lectures more than once, Jackson. I recognize them when I see them.”

“Oh really, and who are you pining away for?” Jackson knew it was Lydia long ago, but by the time he’d returned from London that seemed to be over. He’s watched Stiles watch Derek for years now, and he’s always figured that it’s Derek or maybe Danny that he’s got his eye on.

Stiles doesn’t answer, ducking his head and looking away. There’s a swift sharp scent of anxiety flooding the room. “Nobody,” Stiles mutters. “Look, I’m starting to get that headache I lied about before. Why don’t you go and leave me in peace, okay? I’m not in the mood for trading biting witticisms tonight.”

Jackson’s not an idiot. Not completely, although he’s oblivious enough sometimes that Lydia has to smack him over the head. Like telling him to take ice to a man she probably _knew_ was faking a headache. And the look Derek gave him. He puts it all together and comes up with an answer that’s just terrifying enough that he falters as he lifts his hand, lets it fall again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jackson says slowly. He manages to convince his hand to lift, reaches out slowly to touch Stiles’s shoulder. He digs his thumb into taut muscle, rubbing carefully at the base of his neck. “Rumor has it I’m good with a back rub.”

Stiles’s head drops. “Rumor has it that you’re good at a lot of things, with a lot of different people.”

Jackson shrugs one shoulder even though Stiles can’t see him. “First part’s right. Second part hasn’t been right for a while. Last relationship I had was back in London.”

“And your last one night stand?”

Jackson sucks in a shallow breath. “College,” he admits. “Frat guy, senior year, mutual orgasms when we were drunk and we didn’t see each other again. I had an offer tonight from Emily, but I refused. That’s not what I’m into.”

“Girls? Or one night stands?” Stiles lifts his head, twists to see Jackson’s expression.

He does his best to hold firm, even though he can feel the heat in his cheeks. “Girls. One night stands. Marrying someone I barely know when I’m interested in someone else,” Jackson says. “I would prefer to give a simple neck rub to someone I like, rather than fuck someone I’m not interested in.” His fingers slow, then stop, waiting for a response.

Stiles reaches back to smack him on the thigh. “Don’t stop, asshole. That felt good.”

“And what I said?” Jackson starts up again, both hands now, digging a little deeper until Stiles makes a small, pleased noise and Jackson feels one of the knots in his muscles ease.

“Did you mean it?” Stiles counters. “I’ve known you a long time, Jackson, and you are a bona fide _asshole_. You gave me shit through high school, and you were the frat boy to my independent life in college. I know exactly how—”

Jackson shuts him up the only way he can think, pressing his mouth to Stiles’s quickly, and praying that he’d read this right. “I meant it, dickwad,” he murmurs against his lips, catching a breath before Stiles kisses him back. “You _pretending_ to date Derek has been driving me nuts. You’ve been hanging all over him, so fucking attentive, and you _found me a girl_ , asshole. How the fuck was I supposed to know _you_ were pining for _me_?”

“Lydia could’ve said something.”

Jackson snorts softly. “I think Lydia thinks we’re both idiots.”

“She’s not wrong.” Stiles pulls back and glances at the door. “So. Since Lydia made all the hotel arrangements, she can probably get a spare copy of the key to your room. For Derek. So when you lock the door to _this_ room he has someplace else to sleep.”

It makes sense. It makes enough sense that Jackson texts Lydia and drops the phone on the nightstand before he throws the deadbolt on the door.

When he turns back around, Stiles is sitting on the edge staring at him, mouth slightly open, expression full of nerves and hope. “Are we going to do this?” Stiles asks quietly, and Jackson settles in next to him, nudging him until he lies down.

“We’re going to do something,” Jackson says. “Sleep. Whatever. Add a little excitement to our dull lives. But whatever it is, this,” he motions between the two of them, “isn’t fake. It certainly isn’t dull. And we’re both assholes and we’re going to live up to that shit someday which means the fights might be epic. But I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

It’s as close as Jackson gets to a declaration, but it seems to work because Stiles is kissing him again, and it’s anything _but_ bland. It’s everything he’d been hoping it would be, and Jackson intends to indulge as much as he can for as long as he can.

They might blow up spectacularly someday—they are both assholes after all—but it’s going to be damned good until then.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


End file.
